


Remembering Stanley Uris

by Auggusst



Series: Stephen King's It Supercut [1]
Category: IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Amnesia, Birds, Bittersweet, Coincidences, Fluff, Gen, Happy accidents, Happy times, Memories, The Losers Club, appreciating stanley, loving stanley uris, myra is a bigot, myra is not religiously tolerant, myra kaspbrak sucks, soft losers, tom rogan sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-08 07:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21232283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auggusst/pseuds/Auggusst
Summary: Times throughout the 27 Years that the Losers almost remembered Stanley Uris, and the way he impacted their lives even when he wasn't there.





	Remembering Stanley Uris

**Author's Note:**

> Ideally there will be one of these for each of the Losers.

Richie Tozier was already sick of cleaning up after this party, but it had been worth it. It was a real rager—50 or more people, booze enough to drown a city, and loud music and laughter for 6 hours, all in celebration of his new career. It was almost 4 in the morning now, and the majority of the guests had left, but thankfully a few stuck around for the cleanup, which was a monumental fucking task, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted a repeat. He felt good though, felt proud of himself, and that made his work now alright.

“Congrats again on your tour,” a pretty blonde named Lizzie said at his side, sweeping crumbs off the expensive floor of his house and into a dustpan. She looked a little wild at this point, her up-do destroyed and her makeup all smeared, but her outward appearance didn’t diminish her kindness. Besides, they all looked like shit now. Richie was sure his shirt wasn’t even buttoned the right way anymore.

“Thanks,” he replied, tying up a trash bag. He was tired, and his head was starting to hurt, but if he didn’t clean up now, he never would. Bedtime could wait until things were at least a manageable level of dirty.

“Seriously, I can’t believe you made it!” one of his comedy friends, Angelo, added on, spraying Windex on the window above the kitchen sink. Someone managed to splash wine all over it, and they hadn’t discovered it until now, so it had stained quite nicely.

“Come on, man! I told you I’d make it this far. Told my dad too, though he thought I should be doing something more practical. I told him I could do practical jokes,” Richie grinned. He set the trashbag down by the door, and turned to watch his friend clean the window. He was wiping haphazardly, in little circles or broad swipes here and there, and something about the sight made Richie grind his teeth.

“No, no, man! The fuck are you doing?” he asked, crossing the room in a few steps, a sense of urgency filling him.

“I’m cleaning the window, what’s it look like I’m doing?”

“You’re doing it all wrong,” Richie replied, shaking his head furiously. He grabbed another paper towel from the roll and folded it neatly, (which was a shock to see, because Richie never did _anything_ neatly) and sprayed a little more Windex on the glass.

“You have to do it _the right way_,” he said.

He started at the top left corner of the window, slowly dragged the paper towel horizontally across the surface in a clean line, then lowered it the appropriate amount and brought it across the other side. There was determination on his features, and he continued in this pattern until he reached the bottom of the window, and any trace of wine was missing.

Angelo stared at him in disbelief, like he’d just witnessed an alien abduction.

“There…” Richie said, inspecting his work. He crumpled up the paper towel and slammed it down on the counter. “Right as rain,” he said, but wasn’t sure what brought the words out of his mouth. His brows knit in confusion, and he got the sense that he had forgotten something important, and looked back at the window.

“Who showed you how to clean it like _that_? You don’t clean the rest of your shit like that,” Angelo said.

“I…I don’t—“ Richie paused. Someone must have shown it to him, he knew that much, but who? His palm got kind of itchy for a second, as he tried and failed to remember who’d drilled window cleaning into him like that. He couldn’t think of it, so he settled for a joke instead. “I guess it must’ve been your mom,” he said.

Angelo laughed and walked away, taking the soiled paper towels to the trashcan.

His reaction was….disappointing? It left Richie empty somehow, made him feel like something was missing, only he couldn’t figure out what. He stood there for a moment, trying to reconcile his emotions, and trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his heart. He could almost remember, thought he saw a person in the fuzzy haze of his mind’s eye, but couldn’t get the image to clear, like there was a barrier between him and whatever he was trying to see.

In the end, Richie sighed and shook his head in disappointment, and continued cleaning his trashed place.

* * *

William Denbrough was holding a book signing in a small town in New York when it happened. It was late October, and it was starting to get colder, and the red and yellow leaves here littered the ground more so than the branches. It was particularly windy today, but also sunny, which he was thankful for. The town seemed likely to have horrible winters, and according to the locals, the first snow of the season was due that Sunday. The town seemed nice enough. It had that New England charm, with old houses and little shops, and everyone seemed to know each other. It reminded Bill a little of a place he used to live, that he didn’t remember much of. All of New England looked pretty much the same, though, so it wasn’t a big deal.

Bill couldn’t wait to get back to the west coast though, where it was warmer, where he could write in the privacy of his home, but a local book club asked for him personally, and considering they had over 30 active members (quite an achievement these days) he felt compelled to make the trip.

He’d signed too many books to count, and even shared the news that he was working on the next draft of a horror book, in addition to reading an excerpt from his latest. The readers were nice enough, and a few asked for photos, which made him a little embarrassed, but he suffered the humiliation of having his picture taken to make them happy. Their purchases paid his bills, after all.

Now though the event was over, and he gathered his things as people filtered out of the old library. It was a quaint kind of place, reminded him of childhood in a way that made him comfortable and uncomfortable in equal parts. The floors were hardwood and the air smelled like old books, and the weak scent of coffee from the librarian’s desk was enough to make Bill’s mouth water. Maybe he’d stop somewhere for a cup before he headed to the airport.

He pulled his jacket on and grabbed his messenger bag, and moved down the rows of bookshelves towards the exit. Bill fished the keys to his rental car out of his pocket, but dropped them on the ground. He sighed and leaned down to pick them up. Something caught his eye though on the shelf to his left as he stood back up though, and he stopped in his tracks to look at it.

There was a whole section on Ornithology—The study of birds. There were encyclopedias, photography books, and even a book full of pop-up diagrams. One book’s cover was painted gold, with beautiful little illustrations of Cardinals on the spine, and it made Bill’s heart skip a beat in excitement, like he’d found the perfect gift. The problem was, he didn’t know _who_ to give it to. He wasn’t particularly fond of birds, and neither was Audra, or any of his friends. None of them would give the book a second thought, which made Bill sort of frustrated.

Why the hell had he noticed the book? Why did he pick it up? He turned it over in his hands, flipped through the pages for a moment, took in the beautiful little sketches and watercolor paintings. There was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he couldn’t identify, and it made him a little anxious, like when he forgot to pay a bill or a deadline was approaching. Surely someone he knew had an interest in birds, right? He wouldn’t have spared a glance otherwise. Bill was interested in many animals—wolves, dogs, even bears, but not birds. He wondered what had brought all of this on, what or who possessed him to inspect this book. Maybe he’d think of it later.

Reluctantly, Bill set the book back down on the shelf, and walked away, tugging his jacket straight on his shoulders and biting his lip, trying to jog his memory.

Over his hour and a half drive to the airport, he thought about it, tried to find an explanation for his sudden fascination. He tried to think back through the years, about all the people he knew and met, but still couldn’t find the answer he was looking for. There was a moment where he got close, where his palm twitched and his eyes widened, but in the end, he couldn’t find the answer, couldn’t break through the barrier in his mind.

Bill dreamed of birds that night, in dense but verdant woods, and the scene was so familiar and comforting that he slept through his alarm the next morning.

* * *

Beverly Marsh had been stuck at the drafting table for hours now, trying and failing to come up with a new set of looks for her fashion business. It was time to put out a new line for summer, and she had been looking forward to doing so initially, but it was getting frustrating now. She flipped through books and magazines and scrolled through images on her tablet, begging for inspiration. Each tick of the clock seemed to be louder and louder, bringing her closer to some imaginary deadline. Finally, Bev sighed, and stepped outside for a cigarette. She stood outside the front door of her luxurious New York home, watching the people walking down sidewalks keeping to themselves, watched the clouds drift by up above between the buildings breaking the skyline. She let out a puff of smoke and sighed, turned around and looked at her reflection in her front door. She looked kind of tired, but juvenile in a way, the cigarette resting between her teeth.

_“Smoking is gross,”_ she heard in her head as she watched herself, an echo of a conversation she once had. _“It stains your teeth, and more importantly, turns your clothes yellow and makes them smell bad.”_

She let out an amused exhale, shook her head at the memory. It gave her pause though, and she raised a brow, trying to remember the details of the conversation. The voice was unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, and its owner’s name was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t recall it. Bev stood there a few minutes, trying to work it out, but eventually gave up. She put out her cigarette and went inside, sat back down at her drafting table.

The redhead stared down at her sketchbook once more, tried to think of how to start. That faint voice echoed in her head once more, and she started sketching. Bev was finally swept up by inspiration, and she drew for almost a full hour, started drafting a whole series of designs. They were simpler than her work usually was, full of clean cut angles and geometric necklines. There were high waisted shorts, short sleeved shirts with puffed or raglan sleeves in beautiful striped prints, or solid colors. She designed a pair of leather ankle boots with clean laces, but her favorite piece had to be a little shoulder bag with Zebra finches stitched into the fabric, and a matching pair of feather earrings. She wasn’t sure exactly where the inspiration came from, but she was glad it came nonetheless.

Bev was so absorbed in her work, so excited about her new ideas, that she was halfway through water coloring the 10th concept piece before her fiancé came home. He found her quick enough in her studio—she usually was there.

“Hey Bevvie,” Tom Rogan, who was not yet so open about his true nature, except on rare occasions, greeted. He set down a bag of lemon cake from the local bakery on the edge of her drafting table, leaned down to look at what she was doing. His presence was large, sort of overbearing, but she was used to it, and didn’t flinch away. It would be a few months yet before she had true reason to flinch.

“Working hard?” the man asked, scratching his beard.

Beverly blinked a few times, her mind coming back to the real world, and she looked up from her work and smiled at him. “Yeah. This might be my favorite line yet. Here,” she said, shuffling the papers around until she found the drawing of the purse. “Don’t you just love this one?” Beverly asked, holding it up with pride.

Tom took the paper from her, turned it this way and that, inspecting it. His dark eyes squinted a little, and the corner of his lips turned down, revealing a fraction of the long-seeded malice and hatred he was capable of, that Beverly had been too blind to see.

“I don’t really like birds,” he said. “It’s kind of ugly. But it’ll sell,” he said with a shrug, handing it back to her.

She frowned a little, but kept her mouth shut as he crossed the room and plopped down in the designer armchair. Tom scrolled through apps on his phone. “How’d you come up with that anyway? Nobody does birds.”

“I don’t know,” Beverly replied, looking down at her drawings fondly once more. “It just…seemed right.”

A few months later, after the debut of Bev’s summer line, Patricia Uris caught sight of a gorgeous little bird-covered purse, and bought it without a second of hesitation. It put a smile on Stanley’s face.

* * *

Ben Hanscom was having great fun at this charity fundraiser. He wasn’t too fond of the stuffy suit he was wearing, or making small talk, but his company had raised an ample amount of money, and it made him feel good, made him feel like he was doing something that mattered. This year’s event was all about animals—he had a partnership with the SPCA offering free dog and cat houses in addition to putting a few cute designs on the market. Who didn’t want a cute little dog house to match their real house? Ben made one for his own dog, who still ended up sleeping in his bed more often than not, but the option of the dog house was there.

He also put out a group of bird houses with different climates and sizes in mind, after hearing about the updates to the endangered species list. Ben never found much interest in birds, but they were common pets too, and he wanted to do something for them. He wasn’t sure where he got the idea, but it was working out well, and his efforts seemed to be appreciated.

Ben had given a demonstration on how to make a good birdhouse yesterday, if people preferred to make their own instead of purchasing one of his. It was mostly for children, though there were one or two 14 year olds there too. The kids seemed enraptured by what he had to say, listened as he spouted facts about the different kinds of safety precautions that should be built into birdhouses.

“It’s always good to have a sloped roof,” Ben said, adjusting his pre-cut square of wood to show the kids the right angle. “It’ll keep the rain away and help keep out predators. And you should have drainage holes inside the house, just in case rain does get in.”

A little girl with light brown curls raised her hand. “What sort of predators are there?” she asked, expression serious.

“Well, there’s uh, cats, chipmunks, raccoons, even snakes depending on where you live,” Ben replied, adjusting his wood panels. He’d done quite a bit of research for his work, wanted to get things right, like he always did. Ben used to be quite a book worm, he remembered, so it didn’t take long to pick up facts and retain them.

“I like birds,” the young girl replied. “I don’t want them to get hurt, so I want my birdhouse to be extra safe.”

Ben smiled, amused by the conviction in her tone and appreciative of her attention span. The other kids were paying attention too, but she seemed more invested somehow, more mature, despite being smaller than the others. “They’ll be safe,” he assured her. “Something tells me you’re a great protector.”

She half smiled at that, and it was familiar somehow. Ben got the sense that he’d seen a smile like that before, maybe not with the same features, but with the same feeling, and it was sort of off-putting. He stared a moment, trying to remember, seeing a blurry image of the smile he was thinking of, but being unable to fully reveal the face. It was a good smile though, something special he thought, and Ben really wished he could remember who it belonged to. He got back to the demonstration before any of the kids thought him strange, before someone made a comment about him being crazy. But Ben thought about the smile throughout the rest of the demonstration, especially when his little birdhouse was finished. Had he done something similar before? For a friend maybe?

He thought of it all now, standing by the concession table with a glass of champagne, and thinking back on his childhood. Who had he forgotten? Who had looked at him that way before? Ben couldn’t remember, and it was eating away at him. He couldn’t remember a lot of things, honestly, and attributed it to his subconscious suppressing things that he’d rather forget. But this memory, the one he was struggling to recall, was a good one, he could _feel _it, so why couldn’t he remember?

Ben thought about that little girl, about her quiet enthusiasm, for a long time afterwards.

He ended up raising a special birdhouse in his yard, with a matching bird bath. His house was surrounded by trees, and each morning the birds sang, so the local wildlife would no doubt make use of his gifts. He felt a sense of pride sitting out on his porch one morning, watching a group of Blue Jays bathe in the birdbath, and smiled a little over his cup of coffee.

* * *

It was almost Christmas, and Eddie was looking forward to it, despite it just being him and Myra. His mother died a year ago, and Myra’s brother was across the country, so there wasn’t much to do about it. Eddie was looking at the news on his tablet while Myra was out shopping for some last minute decorations. She liked to wait until the week of to buy things, because they were always cheaper then.

Eddie found her decorating a little gaudy—he liked things a little neater, a little more subtle, but he’d rather let her decorate all she wanted instead of it turning into an argument where she cried in the end. She knew he couldn’t stand when she cried. It was a surefire weapon against him, one his mother often employed in his youth.

Eddie enjoyed the quiet he had for the moment, finished off his tea by the time Myra came home, bags full of tinsel and ornaments when she walked through the door.

The woman sighed in irritation. “Eddie, you won’t _believe_ what happened at the store,” she announced, and Eddie knew he had no choice but to feign curiosity.

“What happened?” he asked, putting his mug in the sink as she set her treasures down on the kitchen table.

“There I was, checking out my things. The cashier was new, some young little thing, and at first it was all fine and good, but then—_oh but then_, when I wished her a ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said ‘Happy Holidays.’ ‘Happy Holidays,’ Eddie! What is that supposed to mean?! As far as I’m concerned, it’s ‘Merry Christmas,’ and that shouldn’t change!”

Eddie took a deep breath, tried not to betray his irritation. “There’s more than one holiday in December, darling,” he replied, washing out his mug. He was very particular about washing things—he did it by hand, with two rinses, _and_ then dishes were placed in the meticulously kept dishwasher. He couldn’t stand the thought of lingering food or germs on his dishes.

“What other holidays are there?” his wife protested, unpacking her new items. She huffed unpleasantly as she set a cute little snowman figurine down on the table.

“Uh, there’s Hanukkah for one?” Eddie replied, frowning a little at her ignorance. Normally their opposite opinions didn’t bother him. Well, not anymore than _everything_ bothered him. But for some reason, this topic got him kind of defensive. “And Kwanzaa too, and even Yuletide, or Festivus. My point is there’s not just Christmas. Actually only about 90% of people in the U.S celebrate Christmas, you know that? So there’s a whole other 10% of people who celebrate other things. So. ‘Happy Holidays.’”

“Well I don’t care what people celebrate in their own homes, but does it have to be thrown at me like that? I was having such a good day until this happened,” Myra complained, her voice taking on that high and innocent tone that reminded Eddie of his mother.

“It wasn’t being thrown at you. I’m sure she didn’t mean to offend you,” Eddie replied, trying to placate her. He really didn’t want her to overreact anymore than she already did.

“How can people not celebrate Christmas? My mom always said people who didn’t celebrate Baby Jesus would go to Hell. Well there sure seems to be a lot of Hell-goers around here. We should move, Eddie. We should move south. People still think the _right way_ down there. No ‘Happy Holidays’ or Hanukkah nonsense there.”

That made Eddie’s temper, normally well guarded, boil over. He turned on her, the words jumping out of his mouth before he could think to stop them. “That’s such bullshit, Myra! There’s nothing wrong with Jewish people at all, or anyone different! People are people, a-a-and they should all be treated the same, regardless of what they celebrate! You can be such a bitch, you know that?!”

“_Eddie_!” Myra exclaimed, scandalized, and it made Eddie recoil, his brain processing what he had just said and done.

He didn’t really regret the words—he meant them, but he certainly regretted his tone. What had come over him? Why did he feel so strongly about this topic? His own mother had raised him Catholic, and he was still practicing (to an extent) and didn’t really have much experience with Judaism. Why was he so quick to champion a cause that wasn’t his own?

He tried thinking back—maybe he knew someone who was Jewish, but he couldn’t seem to remember. Wasn’t there a friend or something? Maybe in middle school? The thought, the familiarity of it, gave him cause to stop in his tracks, and he barely heard Myra’s tearful response, couldn’t quite shake out of his thoughts until she stormed out of the room.

He’d have to deal with that later, but for now resolved to sit and think quietly, looking down at their new decorations and trying to remember whoever he’d forgotten.

* * *

Mike Hanlon remembered Stanley Uris well. Of course he did. Stan the Man was one of the Lucky Seven, one of his best friends. He was quieter than the rest, with the exception of maybe Bill, and always thought rationally, valued logic, but still had a good imagination, despite his reliance on conventional thought. Stan knew when the risks they were taking were too much, had a habit of correcting their grammar, and hated getting dirty. He always used the kickstand on his bike, berated them for simply dropping their bikes on the side of the road more often than not, to the point where Richie would drop his on purpose, just to get an eye roll out of Stan.

Mike liked Stan a lot. He seemed older than the rest of them somehow, as much as a big brother figure as Bill, or, Stan had always been loath to admit, like a mom to the group. Mike remembered bringing Stan some birdfeed from his grandpa’s farm once, locked away in neat little Ziploc bags, and how happy he was spreading the little seeds out around the park and watching the birds come. Mike went with him that day, his camera in tow, and got a frankly beautiful photo of Stan with a bird resting on his index finger, the smile on his face bigger than he’d ever seen it. That photo had its own page in Mike’s photo book.

Mike remembered them all together on Stan’s birthday, and how the boy’s eyes were warm and affectionate as he regarded them all, and the ornate bird figurine they’d all chipped in to buy him. It was one of his prized possessions thereafter, they knew.

Mike thought about Stan whenever he did laundry. It was kind of stupid, but he thought the boy always had impeccable style. It might’ve been due to the fact that his clothes were always in _good condition_. Even when they got dirty playing in the Barrens, Stan always somehow remained cleaner than the rest. He rarely had wrinkles on his clothes, and his shoes were always shined. Working on a farm, Mike’s clothes rarely looked that good, but Stan never commented on it, or looked down on him like some other people in town did. He knew how to get stains out, and taught him some tricks Mike never forgot.

It was Mike’s job, so to speak, to keep tabs on the rest of the Losers. He knew in his heart that their oath was not complete, that It would be back, and back with a vengeance. That was why he lingered here—he needed to keep the Lighthouse, to call the others home when it was time.

There was a photo of Stan on his wedding on his Accounting Firm’s website. He looked happy, and so did his new wife, and that filled Mike with a mixture of regret and happiness. He was glad Stan had found someone, and she obviously treated him right, based on his wide smile in the photo. However, Mike wished he could’ve been there, wished they all could have been there, to share the day together. Visually, Stan had barely changed, when he compared the photo to the one in his book. Maybe he had a few wrinkles, and Mike thought he could see a silver hair peeking out of his curls, but otherwise, it was still undeniably Stan.

It wasn’t time to come together again, though, and Mike knew it. He wished he could just pick up the phone, wished he could call, but he wasn’t sure what would happen if he did. Maybe Stan was content without him, without the rest of the Losers, and Mike couldn’t ruin that for him. So Mike kept to himself, kept watch from afar, settled for his memories of the summer of ’89.

He thought often of Stanley Uris and the others, especially on days like these, when the library was full of young children gathered around a book or two, trying to escape the heat but not really wanting to be here, doing their best to keep quiet.

Mike wondered briefly if they even knew about The Quarry, and almost considered telling them about it, but a selfish part of him wanted to keep the place for himself, and for his friends.

Either way, he did his best every year to take a nice photo of a bird, to paste it in a little scrapbook he had bought, so he could give it to Stanley Uris when they all finally, _finally_, reunited.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please share your thoughts in a comment!


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